


Helpless

by PoetHrotsvitha



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ben Solo is Not Nice, Condescending Dom, F/M, Non-existent Victorian Sex Ed, Orgasms as medicine, Period-Typical Sexism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sheltered Lady Rey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetHrotsvitha/pseuds/PoetHrotsvitha
Summary: All of the best and most up-to-date medical science says that there are behavioural and emotional risks for young women remaining sexually repressed. Ben Solo promised his boss that he would be responsible for all aspects of the young Lady Rey's health and wellbeing- and he takes his promises seriously. [Victorian England AU]
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 55
Kudos: 351





	Helpless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violetwilson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwilson/gifts), [vuas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vuas/gifts), [SecretReyloTrash (BadOldWest)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/gifts).



> This work contains non-consent due to one of the characters being woefully undereducated about sex and not really understanding what's happening.

The door is solid mahogany, and even with her ear pressed right up to the keyhole, Rey can’t hear very much through it. It’s vexing, but it hasn’t stopped her from trying. 

The low bass of Mr. Solo’s voice is intercut with the softer tenor of Doctor Hask, going back and forth in turn. Someone is pacing— probably Mr. Solo, if she had to guess. For the most part, it has been a subdued conversation, bar one moment when Mr. Solo’s raised ‘ _no_ , I will not allow that’ was loud enough to reach her. She wishes she could be in the room. 

Rey shuffles on her knees, trying to get comfortable. The floorboards in the manor’s library aren’t entirely even, and the edges of the wood dig into her skin through her petticoats and pretty blue silk. She suspects that they’re discussing her in some capacity. Before they withdrew to the next room, Doctor Hask had asked her some very strange questions indeed: _were her womanly cycles predictable, did she suffer from any unusual fatigue, was she getting enough exercise in the day?_

She had answered each as succinctly as possible, staring at her lap, face flaming that Mr. Solo was standing close enough to hear. There were long afternoons where she had ignored Miss Phasma’s lecturing in favour of daydreaming about Mr. Solo, hoping he might pay her some special attention if she twined some spring roses in her hair or wore the pretty pearl choker that Grandfather sent from London. She didn’t need him hearing about whether she ‘ever suffers from flatulence’. 

The voices on the other side of the door become clearer. “—can give you some reading,” the doctor is saying. 

Mr. Solo’s answer is flat. “That won’t be necessary.” 

They’re returning, Rey realises, as their footsteps grow louder. She scrambles to her feet, careful not to snag her skirts on her fine leather shoes, and rushes to the settee. By the time the door heavily swings open, she is demurely staring at the open book in her lap like she’s been there the entire time. Mr. Solo’s gaze seems a shade too knowing when she smiles at them both, but it might be her imagination. 

Dr. Hask collects his weather-beaten leather bag with a frown. “I’m glad that Mr. Solo called me here, Lady Palpatine. I believe he is right to be concerned.” 

Rey can’t think of what he means. She rides, plays tennis, eats heartily. Nanny always said she was the picture of health. “Concerned with what?” 

He ignores her, talking to Mr. Solo instead. “I will send my report to Lord Palpatine. I do wish you would let me proceed with the treatment I recommend, Mr. Solo, and I’m not convinced that you have the authority in this house to make a decision without consulting him first.” 

“I assure you,” Mr. Solo replies, eyes narrowing, “that his Lordship left all matters related to his granddaughter’s wellbeing in my hands.” 

It sounds so much like something that a husband might say that Rey flushes, stiffening her spine. Adopting her haughtiest, most indifferent face, she insists, “I’m of a majority, I can be entrusted with my own health.” 

They both ignore her. 

She seethes as Dr. Hask tips his top hat towards Mr. Solo, striding out of the library. He’s visited enough over the years to know how to let himself out of the manor, through the winding hallways lined with imposing portraits of Palpatines past, down the processional staircase and out the imposing medieval doors. It’s only a short walk back to the small village, populated with families whose children Rey was never allowed to play with. 

Once they’re alone, Rey gives up the pretense of reading. “What concerns did he mean, Mr. Solo?” 

He exhales slowly through his nose, mouth working as if he’s chewing on his cheek. When he looks at her, it makes her heart skip a beat. “Miss Phasma has reported that your belligerent, childish instincts have been growing worse by the day. I’ve observed it as well. You’re well past the point where it’s appropriate or ladylike.” 

Rey feels a stab of resentment towards her sour governess. “That’s— I don’t see how—” 

“Yesterday, I told you to avoid going riding in the fog. You ignored me entirely. Just this morning, Miss Phasma told me that you deliberately spilled ink over your Latin Grammar to avoid your reading. I promised your Grandfather that I would be responsible for your education.” He steps closer, and Rey finds that she can only open and close her mouth wordlessly, tipping her neck back further and further to keep her eyes on his face. “Your comportment should be demure and modest. It is notably neither.” 

“How dare you!” It comes out neither as dignified nor as confident as she hoped. Even to her own ears, she sounds painfully young. She clears her throat and tries again. “You’re being beastly.” 

To her shock, he goes on one knee in front of her, arms reaching to brace against the settee on either side of her hips. They’ve only been this close on a few precious occasions that she has dwelled on late at night, tossing and turning and longing for something that she can’t define. 

He has such a handsome, strong face, framed by hair that looks so soft. Rey remembers first seeing it when she was barely a woman, peeking behind a column as he arrived at the manor, her Grandfather solemnly welcoming him in. He fascinated her; this intruder in her sheltered, domestic world, thus far dominated by nannies and governesses and her Grandfather, the nucleus that the household orbited with single minded focus. She was dumbfounded by the quiet confidence in how Mr. Solo spoke to Grandfather, when nearly everyone else cowered. She had watched from an upper window with longing as he practiced his fencing forms in the garden, admiring the shift of his shoulders under his thin shirt, plastered against his skin with sweat. But other than the occasional charged moment where she could have sworn that he was watching her with skin-prickling intensity as she worked over her books or her sewing, she has rarely enjoyed his direct attention. 

She certainly has it now. 

Still kneeling, he undoes his jacket buttons, pulling the garment off and setting it beside her. Rey’s mouth goes dry as she watches him neatly roll up his shirtsleeves, exposing corded forearms that flex with each movement of his hands. 

Any coherent thought that she may have been reserving for admiring the fine lines of his tailored waistcoat disappear to nothingness when he reaches under her skirt and his fingers wrap around her ankle. 

“What,” she squeaks, “what are you doing?” 

Her skirts and petticoats shuffle as the warmth of his palm climbs up her stockings. His hands are so big that one could encircle her whole calf. “The doctor feels that your recent behaviour is due to some of your natural feminine urges being suppressed and having no outlet. He feels you need… Stimulation.” 

The heaviness of his words seems to imply something, but Rey hasn’t the slightest idea of what he means. 

To her shock, his hand is still rising, nudging its way under her silk slip and past the pretty lacy outer edge of her drawers. Still speechless, she tries to snap her knees together, but his other hand pushes them apart with a grunt. “Behave.” 

“But—”

“This is what the doctor felt you needed.” 

Doctor Hask has known her since she could barely see over the edge of the dining room table, has come out to the manor for every bump and scrape. And she doesn’t think Mr. Solo would lie. Rey gulps in a deep breath, trying to relax, trying to ease some of the tension that is holding her spine as rigid as the beech trees in the woods. It’s hard when he looks so focused, brow furrowed and mouth pinched tight, and he’s close enough that she could count all of the moles that dot his skin, each of his individual lashes.

Despite her hammering heart, she manages to keep a degree of composure— until Mr. Solo nudges the slit in her drawers, touching the intimate skin beneath. Her mouth opens to shriek in the stillness of the library but a big hand claps over her lips, smothering the sound. “Hush, silly girl.” 

But she _can’t_. Not when he seems to be looking for something so purposefully, stroking up and down until he brushes against something that makes her stockinged legs kick. Not when he narrows his eyes, watching her face intently, his featherlike caresses becoming firmer. Her skirt bunches around his fingers, moving under her dress, and the rustling of the fabric sounds painfully loud to her ears. She’s panting through her nose, a strange and concentrated heat beginning to grow low in her belly.

It’s the oddest pressure and she tries to squirm away from it, pressing herself against the back of the settee, risking crushing her bustle. His fingers still. It feels as if she’s earned a reprieve until he sighs. “You can either be good and hold still, or I’ll go get something to hold you down. It’s your choice.” 

She can’t think. Her thoughts swirl like leaves in a gale, but strangely, the most upsetting thing is the thought of his standing and leaving her like this, of his being cross with her. Her hips are twitching like they’re chasing his fingers, and through the swirl of adrenaline and rising tears, Rey realises that she wants more than anything for him to continue. 

So, even as she sniffles, she goes slack. Meeting his gaze, she tries to telegraph whatever womanly obedience he seems to be seeking. 

Delicately, his hand moves from her mouth to rest gently wrapped around her neck. Even though he isn’t applying any pressure, it still subtly conveys a threat. “Good girl,” he murmurs. 

She chews on her lip and nods as best as she can, and just like that, his fingers begin to stroke again. Her eyes feel like they’re going to roll back into her head. There’s the musky scent of an aftershave or cologne hovering around her and she realises, a little giddily, that it’s _him_ — it smells like heaven. She shouldn’t like it as much as she does. Despite all his warnings, she finds her head turning, her neck twisting like she’s trying to escape the energy building in her while holding her hips completely still; to her relief, he allows it, as he does the little whimpers that are sneaking out against her will. 

The ribbon holding her hair in place has come loose at some point. She only realises now, as her thrashing against the back of the settee makes her coiled updo come undone; her hair is falling down her shoulders, sticking against her sweaty cheek. Mr. Solo seems to like it. Distantly, she hears him hum and feels his thick fingers tangle against what’s left of her braids on the back of her head, leaving his thumb pressed to her pulse point. 

_Something’s going to happen_ , she realises dizzily. The panic in her chest compounds as she recognises the pressure in her hips as something not dissimilar to when she uses the toilet; she can’t imagine the mortification of accidentally doing that in front of Mr. Solo. “Please,” she keens, barely recognising her own voice, “I’m going to— I can’t—” 

“You can. You will. Go on, precious.” 

Her fingers scratch the velvet of the settee and her toes kick out as she seizes, scalding pleasure ripping through her body. This is something new and wondrous and strange and she relishes and fears it, wishing that he couldn’t see her, wishing that he could see more of her. Rey squirms so badly that the hand stroking her ends up braced against her inner thigh, where she can feel the heat and sticky dampness of his fingertips even through the fabric of her drawers. 

When her legs eventually stop twitching, the silence of the library is deafening. 

Mr. Solo withdraws his hands from her neck and under her dress. “There, now.” She _loathes_ how calm he sounds. Her whole world has just been upended and he’s talking the same way that he does when sampling a pleasant wine. “Are you ready to apologise for your behaviour now?” 

She can’t think. Her legs are still splayed open and her heart is hammering as loud as a train. It takes three heartbeats to remember what he’s talking about, and two more to turn it over in her head. “Yes,” she whispers, too scared to consider what happens if she says no. “I’m sorry.” 

“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s a sweet girl. We’ll repeat this as many times as necessary.” 

Her breath leaves her lungs in a watery exhale. “Wh-what?” 

“The doctor felt that regular repetition was for the best.” 

“Regular?” If her voice got any higher, it would just be a squeak. 

“We’ll see if your manners improve and proceed accordingly.” Even though he’s frowning, in some way— somehow— she is convinced that he is holding back the meanest smile she’s ever seen. “Run along now, Lady Rey.” 

On wobbly arms, she hurriedly pushes herself to the end of the settee and staggers to her feet, trying not to trip over her own ankles. Leaving her book and her hair ribbon and her dignity, she flees, not turning back to look where Mr. Solo is still down on one knee. 

When she gets to her room, she slams the door and sinks down against it, all the way to the floor, burying her head in her arms. 

She’s still throbbing between her legs. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please envision Ben Solo nearly busting out of a Victorian suit a la Henry Cavill in Enola Holmes. You're welcome. 
> 
> Thank you to VioletWilson (@viwiwrites on twitter) for the beta work and generally being lovely <3 Shoutout to vuas and SecretReyloTrash also for stanning gothic paperback covers, which started the convo that spiralled into... this lmao


End file.
